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Updated: June 21, 2025
He followed him a short way, and then running forward, said "Oh, sir! I'm very low!" "Hallo! Signor Twittorini again!" said Ned, wheeling round, sternly. "What have I to do with your being low? I've been low enough myself at times, an' nobody helped " Ned checked himself, for he knew that what he said was false. "I think I'm dying," said Sam, leaning against a house for support.
Hardened though Ned was to suffering, there was something in the fallen boy's face that had touched this fallen man. He turned back with a sort of remonstrative growl, and re-entered the back lane, but Signor Twittorini was gone. He had heard the manager's voice, and fled. A policeman directed him to the nearest casual ward, where the lowest stratum of abject poverty finds its nightly level.
Let it suffice to say that, after one or two songs and a dance had been got through, Ned, part of whose duty it was to announce the performances, rose and in a loud voice said "Signor Twittorini will now sing."
So it was intensely natural for Signor Twittorini was no other than poor Sammy Twitter in the extremest depths of his despair. Half-starved, half-mad, yet ashamed to return to his father's house, the miserable boy had wandered in bye streets, and slept in low lodging-houses as long as his funds lasted.
The manager returned on the stage, and, with a calm voice and manner, which proved himself to be a very fair actor, stated that Signor Twittorini had met with a sudden disaster not a very serious one which, however, rendered it impossible for him to re-appear just then, but that, if sufficiently recovered, he would appear towards the close of the evening.
This was the climax! It brought down the house! Never before had they seen such an actor. He was inimitable, and the people made the usual demand for an encore with tremendous fervour, expecting that Signor Twittorini would repeat the scene, probably with variations, and finish off with the promised song. But poor Sammy did not respond.
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